carry you to me
by airbefore
Summary: This is her home. The place where she grew up, trekking up and down the mountains and racing through the fields. Where she learned to cook and drive and dance. The place where her memories live, where she can close her eyes and take a deep breath and almost hear the fading echo of her mother's voice. This is her home. And damned if she's going to give it up. - AU Christmas-type fic
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

**AN:** I'm a huge fan of those cheesy/cliche Hallmark/Lifetime/ABC Family Christmas movies that flood the airwaves this time of year. This fic is, I guess, kinda my homage to that. It's totally AU and probably is going to end up being pretty sappy so if that's not your thing, bail now. Also, I'm still suffering from terrible writer's block so this is - well, it's not the greatest thing I've ever written. I'm posting it because these are the first words I've managed in months and I'm hoping that maybe getting them out will help clear the path for better ones to follow.

* * *

The corner of the page curls as it catches fire, bright orange flames licking at the embossed letterhead. The paper buckles and she drops it onto the logs, _Dear Ms Beckett_ turning to crumbling black ash. Folding her arms tightly across her chest, Kate sits back, the heat-softened leather cushions giving easily under her weight. She watches the letter disintegrate, the warmth from the fire doing nothing to thaw the frozen fist clamped around her stomach.

Closing her eyes, Kate lets her head fall back against the chair. Her lungs fill with the scent of pine and smoke when she breathes, skin stretching taut over her ribs. The familiarity comforts her, grounds her. Reminds her why she's doing this.

This is her home. The place where she grew up, trekking up and down the mountains and racing through the fields. Where she learned to cook and drive and dance. This is the place where her memories live, where she can close her eyes and take a deep breath and almost hear the fading echo of her mother's voice.

This is her home.

And damned if she's going to give it up.

The fire crackles and pops behind the grate and she stretches out her legs, pointing her toes toward the warm bricks. Her left knee twinges and she draws back, pulling her feet up onto the cushion of the chair, arms looping loosely around her shins. Digging her pinky into a hole in the cuff of her sweater, Kate opens her eyes again, lets the heat of the fire dry her eyes.

A knock at the back door has her sighing. Slowly, Kate unfolds her legs and stands, rakes her fingers through her long hair. Her socked feet slip on the slick hardwood floor as she makes her way down the short hallway between the den and the mud room. The door cracks when she yanks it open, the stiff wood protesting loudly in the frigid night air. Billy gives her a small, rueful smile through screen door, flurries of snow melting in his auburn beard.

"Hey, Kate."

"Hey, Billy," she says, trying to return his smile even as her eyes catch on the idling truck in the driveway. "How bad?"

He shakes his head. "Not too bad, all things considered. Was singing James Taylor up until I got him in the truck. Passed out just before we hit the bridge."

Shoving her feet into the first pair of boots she sees, Kate follows him off the porch and around the side of the late model Ford, squinting against the bright white of the high beams. A patch of steamy fog clings to the window of the passenger door and she can just make out the profile of her father's slack face through the darkness, his cheek pressed up against the cold glass. She reaches for the handle, her bare fingers burning in the cold.

"Let me," Billy says, angling his body between Kate and the door. "He's dead weight tonight."

Clenching her teeth, Kate nods and steps back. Hands pulled into her sleeves, she wraps her sweater more tightly around her body and watches as Billy pops open the door and catches her father's limp body.

Fifteen years.

She has no idea how he's still alive.

Billy turns to look at her, Jim Beckett clutched in his burly arms. "Cabin?"

"Yeah." She steps in and closes the truck door softly, trying not to wake any of the guests sleeping in the main house. "Let's go."

Billy shuffles across the lawn, her father a limp marionette dangling off the barman's shoulder. His head lolls, rolling bonelessly with each heavy step. Kate trudges up the steps to her father's small cabin, dead leaves crunching under the soles of her untied boots.

"Just put him here," Kate says, flipping on the small blue lamp next to the couch.

Billy frowns at her. "You sure? I can take him back to the bedroom, Kate. It's not a problem."

It _is _a problem. It's been a problem since that cold January night fifteen years ago. But it's her problem, not Billy's.

"I'm sure. He'll be fine on the couch for tonight."

Gently, Billy lowers Jim onto the couch, one large hand supporting his limp neck like an infant. Kate steps forward as Billy moves back. She pulls a throw blanket off the back of an armchair and spreads it over her father before untying and tugging off his boots, the routine so second nature by now that she doesn't even think about it. Her muscles lead her through the motions while her mind shuts down. She doesn't want to feel it tonight. Doesn't want to let the anger and the hurt take over.

"Jo?" Jim's eyes, glassy and vacant, flutter open and he stares up at her, unseeing. The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile Kate only sees on nights like this as he slurs, "Jo, is that you?" Kate shrinks back when a shaking hand lifts toward her face. "Beautiful. So beautiful, Jo."

"No, Dad," she sighs. "It's Kate."

Both the smile and the hand fall as her father blinks at her. "Katie?"

"Yeah."

Jim closes his eyes. "You look too much like her," he sighs and the whiskey on his breath makes her eyes burn.

"I know, Dad." Kate tucks the blanket around his shoulders as her father slips back into the darkness. "I know."

Her knee catches when she stands, a hard pop that steals her breath and sends sparks flying up her thigh. Billy reaches for her, his fingers hovering at her elbow. She pulls away from him with a tense smile, bending her left leg gingerly. The lamplight reflects off his brown eyes as he looks at her, his face a soft mask of pity and adoration that she refuses to acknowledge. With one last look at her father, Kate turns and heads toward the door.

Her breath fogs the cold night air when she steps off the front porch of her father's cabin. "You could have just called me," she says, boots crunching the frost covered leaves and grass. "I would have come for him."

"You know I don't mind, Kate. I wanted to -"

"Billy," she says softly, turning to face him, "not tonight, okay? Please."

She can't deal with him tonight, with his misplaced affection and almost pathological need to ask her on a date every time he sees her. Can't deal with the way his hopeful smile melts into a resigned frown when she inevitably turns him down. Stepping forward, Kate presses a light kiss to his whiskery cheek.

"Thanks for bringing him home. I really appreciate it."

Silently, Billy nods and walks away. Kate watches him climb into the cab of the truck, the engine revving when he shifts into gear. Tires crunch on gravel as he rounds the circular driveway, snowflakes dancing in the light of his headlights, and Kate raises her hand in a wave before heading inside.

She stops by the kitchen for a cup of coffee on her way to the front desk. The grandfather clock in the entryway ticks steadily as she walks past, unable to resist running a finger over the smooth, century old oak.

Low lamp light reflects off the computer monitor and Kate shakes the mouse, bringing the machine to life. She glances at the emails waiting in her inbox, making a mental note to respond to the one from her accountant the next morning. The guest list for the week catches her eye and she swallows. Only ten out of twenty-two rooms reserved. Something's gotta give. Soon.

Headlights flash across the front window and Kate straightens, slipping her stockinged feet back into the heels sitting under the desk. She takes a deep, calming breath and rolls her shoulders back, pulls her lips up into something resembling a smile.

Snow swirls across the threshold when the front door opens. The man bounces a little on this toes as he shakes off his gloves, gaze travelling intently around the room. He smiles broadly when he sees her, blue eyes crinkling up at the corners in a way that makes her own smile widen.

"Mr. Castle," Kate says, as he steps into the room, gloves hanging out of his jacket pocket. "Welcome to the Besito."

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always welcome. _


	2. Chapter 2

The GPS barks out directions and Rick curses, squinting against the glare of oncoming headlights. He flips on his turn indicator and slows to a crawl, searching for a break in the snow covered shoulder of the narrow road. The shabby old sign comes into view and he sighs, shoulders dropping from their perch next to his ears.

_Besito _

The suspension rattles when he turns into the long, narrow driveway. Garden lamps illuminate the tree lined path, a steady beacon of soft amber light guiding him through the gentle curves and dips. Snow falls silently on the windshield and he turns off the radio, allows himself to enjoy a few moments of all too rare quiet.

The tree line breaks suddenly and Rick feels his breath catch, fingers going slack around the steering wheel. The inn sits at the bottom of a small hill, the snow covered roof and eaves standing out against the stark blackness of the moonless night sky. Smoke pours out of the multiple chimneys, the scent of burning wood so strong that it seeps through the closed windows of his sedan. White fairy lights twinkle along the length of the wrap around porch, winking like fallen stars against the stained wood.

Rick pulls into the half-empty parking lot. Throwing the car into park, he kills the engine and pops the door, shivering as his boots crunch on the icy snow. He tugs on his gloves and reaches into the backseat for his duffle. Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he takes a deep breath, the smell of pine and snow and hay filling his lungs.

The front door swings open easily, the white lace curtain swishing as he bounces on his toes. Warm air bathes his face and Rick tugs off his gloves, stuffing them into the pocket of his jacket while his eyes roam. Rich earth tones surround him, dark browns and deep greens that make him feel an almost instant connection to the place. He drags a finger over the rough stone wall, his blunt nail catching on the mortar.

It looks like a damn postcard.

And _she_ looks like a model.

Rick smiles when he sees her, can't seem to help himself. Long brown hair, tumbling in waves over her shoulders, wide green eyes that reel him in, make him want to know her secrets, what makes her tick. Her smile widens slightly when he steps into the room, the rosy apples of her cheeks lifting, and he feels the sudden and rather insane urge to kiss her, to run his tongue along the gentle bow of her full bottom lip and taste her cheer.

"Mr. Castle," she says, her voice a smoky lilt that makes his stomach twist. "Welcome to the Besito. I trust you didn't have any problems finding us?"

"Please, call me Rick." The duffel thumps dully against the plush carpet runner in front of the check-in counter. "And, no. The snow slowed me down but I made it."

"Clearly," she laughs, tapping at the computer keyboard. "And what brings you here, Mr. Castle? Business or pleasure?"

"Well, I was hoping for a little of both," he answers, lifting an eyebrow as he leans over and braces his crossed forearms on the polished wood desk. "Care to help me out?"

She laughs again, a rich, full tone that strikes a chord deep inside his chest. "Really? _That's_ your line?"

"Depends. Did it work, Ms -"

"Beckett," she says, picking up the credit card he slides across the counter. "Kate. And no. Not even a little."

A light blush flushes her cheeks when she averts her eyes, slim fingers once again tapping at the plastic keys. He watches her, smiling a little at the way she refuses to look back at him, her eyes locked firmly on the computer. The desire to see how far he can push her brews in the back of his mind but he suppresses it for now. He has plenty of time for that later.

Straightening up, Rick turns to take in the rest of the room. The buttons on his coat slip open easily as the walks toward the far wall, drawn by the glint of firelight on glass. Assorted frames hang on the stone, an artfully arranged timeline of the inn. His eyes track the slow progression from black and white to color, the additions of buildings and people. The largest picture - a sepia toned print of a young couple on their wedding day - holds a place of honor in the middle of the wall, the others branching off in a pattern he's unable to discern.

"My grandparents."

Rick startles when she speaks, turning to find her standing at his elbow. The heels on her feet put her almost at his eye level and he finds himself imagining how her body might fit with his if she took them off.

"They look happy."

"They were," Kate nods. "Extremely." The wistfulness in her voice piques his curiosity but before he can open his mouth to let loose the flood of questions, she clears her throat and steps back. "Well, you're all checked in. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room."

"Ooo," he croons as she turns to walk away from him. "Do you show all your gentlemen guests to their rooms, Ms. Beckett, or am I getting preferential treatment? Is it because I'm just so ruggedly handsome?"

The corners of her mouth flirt with a smile as she grabs a brass key off the desk. "The kitchen closed an hour ago," she continues, ignoring him, "but if you're hungry I can have something brought to your room."

Hooking his duffle over his shoulder, Rick follows her up the stairs. He finds himself slightly hypnotized by the gentle sway of her hips, the way the curled ends of her hair brush along her shoulder blades with each step.

"Will you be the one bringing it?"

"No."

"Would you if I asked?."

"No." Kate turn right at the top of the stairs, leading him down a long, plushly carpeted hallway. She stops halfway down, in front of a door marked with a wooden plaque bearing the number seventeen. "Your room, Mr. Castle."

Rick lets his fingers linger over hers when he takes the key she holds out for him, the metal warmed by the heat of her skin. The dimness of the hallway leaves her eyes unreadable but for just a moment he thinks maybe he can see the tiniest hitch in the rise and fall of her chest.

He slips the lock into the door but doesn't turn the knob. "Since you seemed so interested, I _am_ here on business," he says, patting the pocket on the duffle where his laptop is stored. "I'm a travel writer."

"I ask everyone that question," Kate says and he can hear the eye roll in her voice.

"Whatever you say, Kate," he says, holding up his hands. "My point, though, is that I'm doing a piece on holiday vacation spots and, if you're interested, I'd love to include the Besito." He glances around the hallway, an odd warmth spreading through his chest when he looks back at her. "This place is clearly special."

"You've been here for twenty minutes, Mr. Castle."

"Instinct," he says, flipping the lock on the door and gripping the handle. "Plus," he looks her up and down, "I have eyes."

"And nerve."

"Wouldn't be where I am without it," he grins. "So, how about tomorrow? Maybe you could show me around the inn and the grounds, give me some background for my piece?"

Kate eyes him warily.

"Come on, Kate. It'll be good press for the inn."

She stares at him for a long moment before nodding sharply. "Fine. But it'll have to be the day after tomorrow."

Rick sighs dramatically. "I guess I can wait if I have to. But you'd better make it worth it."

"Goodnight, Mr. Castle," she says, stepping around him as he presses open the door to his room with one shoulder.

"You wanna come in?" He nods into the darkness, lifts an eyebrow. "Get a little head start on that interview?"

"In your dreams," Kate says, shaking her head as she walks away.

"Probably," he calls after her, laughing.

The door closes with a soft snick. Tossing his bag on the bed, Rick shrugs out of his jacket and toes off his shoes. An old writing desk in the corner draws his attention and he shuffles over, socks rasping against the thick rug that rests at the foot of the bed. He runs a hand across the top, his skin gliding easily over the oiled wood in spite of the many fine scratches. A small card propped against the lamp instructs him on how to log onto the wireless internet and he picks it up, a sudden heaviness settling on his chest.

He had reservations about this before he left the city but now that he's here, now that he's met her -

Sighing, Rick pulls the laptop out of his bag. He sits on the bed, unwilling to use the writing desk for this. Using the inn's internet service is bad enough. Logging on, he opens the email program on his desktop, composes a new draft.

_Got her to agree to an interview day after tomorrow. I'll poke around some before then and let you know what I find._

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


	3. Chapter 3

_I forgot to add angst as a genre for this when I originally posted it. Sorry about that. But don't worry, this isn't my usual someone's cheating or everybody's dying angst. It's Christmas angst. That's a thing, right?_

* * *

Early morning light spills across the hardwood floors of the cabin's living room as she sinks down into an armchair, the overstuffed cushion sighing softly. Kate crosses her legs, the hiking boots she laced herself into weighing down her foot as it dangles. Cradling a cup of coffee in both hands, she looks out the window, watching the sun crest over the top of the snow covered hill.

Thursdays are the one day off she allows herself each week, a day reserved for personal errands and meager amounts of something she almost has herself convinced is relaxation. She'd tried to sleep in again this morning but, just like every other Thursday, she was up at four, her internal alarm blaring. The previous night had flashed through her mind as she lay there, staring up at the canvas of the ceiling, the white washed a sickly grey in the dark.

A sad sort of resignation filled her as she remembered putting her father to bed on his couch, the pitiful look on his face when he'd mistaken Kate for her mother. It's been fifteen years since he last looked at her with anything other than resentment in his eyes and she can't help but wonder when it will stop hurting. When her father's desire to rewrite the outcome of the accident won't be a jagged wound in her side. She's glad he was in a blackout the night he stood in the middle of her living room and screamed that she should have been the one to die that night.

No need for both of them to carry the weight of that memory.

Jim stirs, one hand lifting to scrub at a stubbly cheek. His eyes, bloodshot and dull, flutter open and he sighs when he looks over, finds her sitting in his favorite chair.

"Katie."

Kate pauses, coffee lifted halfway to her lips. The complete lack of emotion in his voice turns her stomach. She lowers the mug, sets it down half-empty on the coffee table.

"I'm sending Marco and Adam to get your truck after they're finished in the barn."

Groaning, Jim sits up. He leans forward and plants his elbows on his knees, head clutched tightly between his palms. "No," he rasps. "I'll call Billy. He'll come pick me up."

"I think Billy's done more than enough already," Kate says, her jaw clenching. Billy Jacobson has been actively enabling her father's alcoholism for a more than a decade. And he wonders why she won't agree to date him. "Marco and Adam will go."

"You shouldn't be using your employees for personal business."

Kate scoffs. "So _now_ you give a damn about the inn?"

"I've always cared about the inn. Johanna loved this place."

The hard rubber sole of her boot thumps against the floor when she uncrosses her legs. Planting her hands on her thighs, Kate stands up. Today is her day. She's not dealing with this. Feet planted wide, she stares down at her slumped father.

"She did. And, for reasons that escape me right now, she loved you. I'm busting my ass to save this place but I can't -" Kate swallows, blinks away the hot burn of tears. "Pull yourself together, Dad. It's been fifteen years. Enough is enough."

He doesn't look at her, doesn't speak. Kate walks to the door, pulls her coat from the rack. The teeth on the zipper grab at each other as she pulls it closed, the sound too loud in the silence of the living room. Her gloves slide on easily and she reaches for the rusty old doorknob, gripping it firmly and lifting as she twists. Standing in the open doorway, she looks back at him, cold air swirling around her legs.

"You're not the only one hurting. We both lost her." Jim's fingers clench in his hair but still he doesn't look at her. "But I - I lost you, too."

Kate shuts the door behind her as she steps out onto the porch. She pulls in a deep breath, lets the rush of clean air wash away the stench of stale whiskey hanging in the back of her throat. The snow sparkles in the sun, the light almost blinding as she looks across the lawn toward the main building. Through the tinted bay window, Kate sees the guests gathering in the dining room, some of them dressed for the day, others still in pajamas. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she takes the stairs at a jog and heads toward the back door of the inn.

The clatter of pots and pans greets her when she steps out of the mudroom and into the hall off the back of the kitchen. She can hear Leslie singing, her scratchy voice warbling. Kate takes a moment to pull herself together, to twist her mouth into something other than a tense line. If Leslie sees her like this, she'll be forced to sit and talk and that is the last thing she wants.

Forced smile in place, Kate walks into the kitchen, side-stepping a waiter on his way out. She snags a piece of bacon from a platter and rounds the island, heading straight for the industrial coffee pot. Chewing, Kate fixes herself another cup, hoping this one will taste a little less bitter.

"Coffee and a slice of bacon isn't gonna cut it in my kitchen, Katherine."

"How did you even know about the bacon?" She turns around, finds Leslie still manning the stove, her back to the kitchen. "You haven't looked away from that pan since I walked in."

"Eyes in the back of my head," Leslie says, sliding an omelette onto a waiting plate. "I really thought you'd have figured that out years ago." Leslie turns, blonde curls poking out from under her baseball cap. She waves a spatula at Kate, directing her toward the kitchen island. "Sit down and I'll make you a plate."

"I'm really not hungry, Les," Kate says, shaking her head. "Just the coffee is fine."

"Sit," Leslie repeats, turning back to the stove.

Leslie Prince has been the inn's chef for over twenty-five years. Two decades of ruling the kitchen and the Beckett family meals with a iron fist. Kate knows she can't win this fight.

She can't outright win but she _can_ bargain.

"I'm going for a ride," she says, sipping at her coffee. "How about I let you make me something to take along?"

"Look beside the walk-in."

Kate looks across the kitchen, laughing when she spots the brown paper sack and thermos sitting on the counter next to the walk-in freezer. The bag bulges awkwardly, her name printed across the front in Leslie's neat block lettering.

"You know I'm not ten anymore, right?"

Leslie gives her a raised eyebrow over her shoulder while flipping a pancake. "What I know is that your grandmother would roll over in her grave if I let you walk out of this kitchen without food."

Kate finishes the coffee and puts the empty cup in the sink. She grabs the bag and thermos on her way to the door, her smile now genuine. Leslie has always been like family, the fun aunt she never had, going out of her way to take care of Kate and her father. She held them together for months after the accident and Kate refuses to let herself think about where they'd be now without her. Rounding the island, she rests a hand on Leslie's shoulder, kisses her cheek.

"Thanks, Les."

She gets a hand wave in return. "We still need to talk about the menu for Christmas dinner next week."

"No, we don't," Kate laughs, backing away. "You're going to make whatever you want, no matter what we discuss. You always do. I don't know why you still bother to pretend to care what I think."

"I like to at least give you the illusion of having options, Katherine. It's just polite."

Kate laughs again, turning to walk out of the kitchen. She catches a waiter in the hallway, asks him to bring some food out to her dad once breakfast service has ended. She might not be able to save him from himself but she can at least make sure he's fed. A low hum of conversation floats down from the other end of the hall and Kate pauses, takes a moment to soak in the sound of her guests. She fights the urge to make an appearance, to shake their hands and ask about theirs stays. Small talk and inane conversation are two things she's perfected over the past decade but this morning, she just doesn't have it in her.

Abruptly, she turns the other direction, heads toward the back door. Kate pulls her sunglasses out of the pocket of her coat when she steps out onto the porch, slipping them onto the bridge of her nose as she scans the sky. She hasn't ridden in a few weeks and today looks to be the perfect day for it. Bag and thermos in hand, she skips quickly down the short flight of stairs and walks toward the barn.

"Better hurry or you're gonna miss the bus."

Kate spins, halfway between the inn and the barn. Her heart stumbles a little when she sees him leaning against the railing on the porch, a crooked smile tilting at his lips and his hair flopping down over his forehead. A voice in the back of her mind offers up a rebuke at her completely irrational response to him. Insists that she isn't attracted to him. She can't be. He's a guest. And kind of an ass.

But damn it if he isn't good looking.

"Good morning, Mr. Castle," she says, nodding at him. Professional. She needs to be professional. "How was your first night with us? Did you sleep well?"

"I did," he answers. The wooden railing creaks softly when he pushes off of it and walks toward the stairs. "Probably would have been better if I'd had company in that big, comfortable bed you gave me."

Kate watches him come down the steps, his eyes hidden by a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses. She checks him out from behind her own as he approaches her. Slowly, her eyes move up and down his body, taking in the long legs and thick arms, the hard cut of his jaw and bend in his sloping nose. Her fingers itch with the urge to touch his cheeks, to feel the burn of his light stubble against her skin.

"Dustin is working at the front desk this morning," she offers when he's just a few feet away. "We normally don't handle that sort of thing but I'm sure he could find you a companion."

He laughs, a deep and booming sound that echoes loudly in the still morning air. "I appreciate the offer, Ms. Beckett, but I assure you, I need no assistance in that particular area." The snow crunches as he steps closer. "I'm quite charming, in case you haven't noticed."

Rolling her eyes, Kate turns away from him and starts for the barn again. He clumps along noisily behind her and she fights against the stupid little smile she can feel twitching in her cheeks.

"You know, I really didn't have you pegged for a brown bag girl. You're definitely more the pink with flowers and Barbie stickers type."

"Clearly, you don't know me at all."

"Maybe not," he says, leaning against the wood post fence that encloses the paddock. "But I'd certainly like to."

Kate rounds on him. "Does this act _really_ work for you? The leering and the bravado and the slimy come ons? For the sake of my gender, I'm seriously hoping it doesn't." He opens his mouth but she holds up a hand. "Please, don't. While I'm sure that somewhere deep under all -" she waves her hand up and down, gesturing at the length of his body - "_this_, lies a decent human being, that's really not my concern. You are a guest at my inn, Mr. Castle, and as such I will treat you with respect and kindness. Please stop trying to make that impossible."

Slipping through the gate, Kate leaves him standing next to the fence, hands in his pockets as he stares after her. After securing her thermos and lunch in the saddle bag, she mounts her horse and glances back at him. The abashed look on his face brings her a small measure of gratification.

Clicking her tongue, she nudges the horse out into the field, reins held loosely in her right hand. The steady roll of the horse's gait calms her as she rides along her favorite trail, the tension of the morning melting away with each steady step.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


End file.
